


don't be so hard on yourself

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Family, Fluff, High School, Modern Era, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Prom, Protectiveness, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya meets Jon in the driveway; greets him with a sour, “She’s <i>insufferable.</i>”</p><p>-</p><p>Or: Sansa no longer has a prom date. Jon gallantly steps in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't be so hard on yourself

**Author's Note:**

> just caught up on game of thrones aaaaand i'm here now ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Arya meets Jon in the driveway; greets him with a sour, “She’s _insufferable_.”

He leans against his car with a sigh. Sansa’s old, blue Jeep is parked at the curb--the family’s hand-me-down vehicle that’s been around since Uncle Benjen snapped it up for a steal nearly thirty years ago. Otherwise, it looks like she and Arya are the only one’s home.

He follows Arya inside and surveys the war zone: Sansa’s book bag is on the steps, Arya’s fencing bag is blocking the foyer, a jacket and a scarf are lying haphazardly on the floor. He can almost recreate the dance of their argument in his head, for how often they occur and how often he’s around to see them. He just doesn’t know the subject of this particular one. Yet. He frowns. “What happened?”

Arya rolls her eyes. “What _hasn’t_? Queen Sansa probably broke a nail or wore the same shirt as one of her--”

“Anything productive,” he clarifies.

She shrugs; _who knows, who cares?_ Though the Stark sisters love one another deeply--it took Jon quite a few years to be convinced of that fact, in all honesty--Arya is as adept at handling emotions as a rock. Hence: Jon. She sent him a flurry of increasingly exasperated text messages while he was at work, begging him to come over.

Sansa and Arya butting heads in of itself was not unusual, nor was Jon’s involvement as peace-keeper. Sansa’s silence, however, was. He’s used to dousing Stark family fires simultaneously, but no matter how often he checked the text messages between him and Sansa, it remained their gif exchange from last week. And that, truthfully, is what sent him speeding to the Starks after work more than anything.

He climbs the stairs after Arya gives him another helpless shrug, and tries not to feel like a complete and utter creep as he stands outside of Sansa’s bedroom door. It’s shut, but he can hear muffled music inside-- and, when he leans further in, the telltale watery sniffs of crying. _Oh fuck_ , he thinks, but there’s not much else to do done: he knocks.

“Go away, Arya. _God_ , how many times--”

“It’s me,” he says, clears his throat, “Jon.”

He hears footfalls, dull against carpet; a moment later, the door is pulled open to reveal Sansa: teary-eyed, red hair thrown up into a messy bun, and she’s wearing Jon’s old _Crows_ sweater. Her jeans have holes in the knees, and she’s barefoot. Gorgeous shouldn’t be the word that pops in his head, but it does. She _is_. He tries to smile. The forced ones usually come out as winces. She’s wearing his sweatshirt, he thinks, and hastily beats the thought back to the dark, forbidden corner from whence it came.

“Arya called you,” she says, her words flat.

He expects her to send him away. Strictly speaking, they’re _family friends--_ not friends. He grew up as Robb’s best friend--sometimes he thinks he spent more time here, with the Starks, than he did with his own family--and it wasn’t odd to find him playing with any of the younger kids while Robb was otherwise indisposed. That was, until he and Robb grew to be embarrassed tweens; _way_ too cool. By the time that phase passed, it was Sansa’s turn to be _too cool_ to hang with her older brother and his best friend. They only recently started talking again, independent of Robb, and it’s mostly innocent thoughts and random memes. So-- he expects her to turn him right around, but she retreats inside instead, leaving the door open like an invitation: _come inside, or don’t._

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon does.

Sansa’s room feels both familiar and foreign, their shared childhood organically overlapped by her growing up. Ticket stubs and pictures of people Jon doesn’t know are taped to her old vanity, right next to a drawing Rickon gave her last Christmas, the Starks (and Jon) carefully labelled in purple crayon. He tries not to act completely out of his depth as he sits next to her, as he tucks her against his side, as he stays silent while she cries against his shoulder. _Whatever it is_ , he thinks, _you’re okay. You’ll be okay_.

 

-

 

“Joff broke up with me.” Sansa quickly continues, steamrolling over Jon’s flash of anger, “which, honestly, I don’t even care. Screw him. He’s a jerk, has _always_ been a jerk, and I’m _glad_ I don’t have to put up with him anymore, but--”

“But?”

“Prom is tomorrow,” she says. “I bought a new dress for it and I have an appointment for my nails, Mom’s been looking forward to taking a million pictures-- and it would just be _so weird_ if I went with our planned group because Joff will be there, too--” she groans-- “It’s a mess. A stupid mess.”

“Wow,” he says tightly. What kind of prick breaks up with his girlfriend the day before prom? He’s never liked Joffrey-- _no one_ likes the guy, according to Arya--but he’s been quietly supportive of Sansa’s relationship while also fervently praying for its swift demise. Now? Seeing Sansa’s tear-tracked face? He feels like a jerk. Sansa deserves all the good things. Better than his selfishness, in any case.

“Tell me about it,” she replies, and leans away with a sudden, jerky laugh. “Oh, _Jon_. I think I just cried all my make-up off on your shirt.”

He looks down, looks back up. He squints. “You look like a little bandit.”

She laughs again, and swipes her thumbs under her eyes. That, of course, doesn’t do much but smudge the leftover mascara around even more. “Better?”

“Immensely.”

The tiny smile she wears fades, bit by bit. “So,” she breathes, “any ideas?”

“On where to bury Joff--?”

She swats at his arm, and he’s pleased to see that small smile back on her face. “The _prom,_ you ass.”

“Can’t you go with some other friends? Maybe, um, Jeyne?”

“I could…” She flushes. “Though I have it on good authority she has a hotel room and that is _not_ the kind of third wheel action I’m looking for.”

The idea comes to him in a flash, and just as quickly, he says, “I’ll take you.” He’d have to borrow Robb’s suit--they’re close enough in size, aren’t they?--and scrape some change together to buy Sansa a _proper_ corsage, but taking her is the simplest answer, isn’t it? Who else?

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well-- I mean, you _can,_ but. Ygritte. Wouldn’t she, um, mind? That I’m taking her boyfriend?”

He tries to smile; it’s another wince. “We broke up a while ago,” he explains. What he doesn’t say is how he was bluntly told by the other redhead in his life to get his head out of his ass. “We’re still friends.”

“Sorry.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “I liked her.”

“Yeah,” because he did, too. Still, it’s hard to commit to someone when you’re in love with your best friend’s little sister. “What do you say, then? Will you go to prom with me?”

There’s something in Sansa’s expression that twists at his nerves, but whatever's there settles into easy happiness. “I think I should be asking, don’t you? Since it’s _my_ prom?” She pops up on her knees, and leans over to her nightstand. She snatches something up that Jon can’t see. When she turns around, she has a tiny wolf figurine in her palm. “Jon Snow, will you go to prom with me?”

He reaches out and pets the soapstone with his index finger, feeling like he’s been solidly boxes about the ears. The wolf sits on its haunches, head thrown back in a lone howl. Sansa named her Lady, and he still remembers how tightly her arms wrapped around his neck after he gifted it to her on her twelfth birthday. It’s not his best work, but it’s by her bedside nevertheless. Warm is the only word for how he feels. “You kept it.”

“Of course I did.” She closes her hand around Lady with a soft smile. “Now… answer the question.”

He grins. A real one, this time. “What color’s your dress?”

 

-

 

(He borrows one of Robb’s suits, and manages to wrangle a discount from Old Nan on the corsage once he explains his plight, the last minute order. She gives it to him, he’s sure, because she’s as invested in Sansa’s happiness as the rest of the Winterfell is.

In the end, the night all comes together without a hitch. After he’s pinned the corsage to her dress, and posed for hundreds of pictures under Cat’s instructions, he takes Sansa to prom. They dance together, swaying loosely through fast and slow tempos, and avoid all of Sansa’s so-called friends. The pale winter rose stands out against the royal blue of her dress, and when he gathers the courage to tell Sansa’s she’s beautiful, she tucks her smile into his neck.)


End file.
